The Colombian Mule

by Massimo Carlotto

  ‘What do you know about the Zodiaco?’ Rossini asked.

  ‘It’s busiest in the summer, mainly. It’s family run. They give you bed, breakfast and an evening meal and it’s cheap. All in all, a quiet little hotel.’

  ‘Drugs, girls . . . ?’

  ‘No. None of that stuff.’

  ‘But ten days ago they arrested a Colombian there with eight-hundred grams of coke.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about that. Whoever told him to go to the Zodiaco knew it was the place to use if you don’t want to attract attention. In the winter, there’s nothing but passing trade.’

  At the hotel reception desk, we found a man sprawled across a 1960s leather armchair that was stylistically in perfect harmony with the rest of the room’s furnishings. He must have been over sixty. Short and skinny, he wore a light brown suit, white shirt and a red tie fastened in a slender knot. It was early afternoon and he was glued to the television.

  Old Rossini pointed at the TV set. ‘Anna Identici. She was one of my all-time favorites. She used to sing at Communist Party festivals. “Era Bello Il Mio Ragazzo” always brought tears to my eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember it well.’

  ‘Afternoon. You want a room?’ the man asked, without peeling his eyes from the screen.

  I pulled out my cigarettes, offered Rossini one and looked around. The place looked clean and decent enough. Your classic small hotel with the same summer customers year-in year-out for thirty years, and every day identical. Mornings at the seaside, followed by lunch and a quiet nap. Then back to the beach. Dinner at seven on the dot: pasta, cheese and salad. A game of canasta and then at eleven, bed.

  Our silence forced the man to pay us some attention. ‘I did ask if you wanted a room.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied politely. ‘We’d like to know what happened here during the night of the twenty-sixth of December. All the details.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the man warily, settling his metal-framed spectacles on his nose.

  Rossini broke in drily. ‘What’s your preference? Reporters, lawyers, priests, ratcatchers? We can be whoever you want us to be.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Are you the owner of this hotel?’ I asked pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Good. That means we’re talking to the right person. We just want to know what happened on that particular night, when the police arrived here with the Colombian, and then later on when they arrested the man who came knocking on the Colombian’s door,’ I explained, in a conciliatory tone.

  The hotelier shook his head vigorously. ‘I can’t tell you. So please leave now. Otherwise I’ll call the police.’

  I looked at the hotel price list on the wall behind his head. Then I pulled out my wallet and placed on the counter the price of a double room for a week. ‘You must forgive me for insisting, but it’s important. Besides, nobody will know,’ I said.

  I could tell that although he was sorely tempted by the offer he still couldn’t quite make up his mind. Rossini decided to tip the balance.

  ‘Hurry up, grab the cash and start talking. Because if you don’t, I’ll break one of your arms now and then come back next week and break the other.’

  Rossini had issued this threat in a flat tone quite free of malice, and the man was now ready to talk. I guess he just needed a good reason to accept the bribe.

  The hotelier pocketed the money and spoke for five minutes straight. He wasn’t a great storyteller, a bit weak on detail and confused in places, but we managed to piece together a clear enough picture of what had happened. The room had been booked over the phone a few days before Christmas by a man with a strong local accent. He had said that a Spanish guest of his would be arriving at about 6:30 P.M. on the twenty-sixth and that he would only be staying one night. He had said he would drop round the same evening in person to pay the bill.

  At 7 P.M. on the twenty-sixth, the Spaniard still hadn’t shown up. At five past seven, the man had phoned to find out whether his guest had arrived, and from then on he phoned every half-hour. Just before nine, a captain from the Guardia di Finanza and an officer from Venice police headquarters had turned up at reception, both in plain clothes, and discreetly showed the hotelier their service ID.

  The cops had enquired about the room booked for the Spaniard and asked for information on the other people staying at the hotel. When the man who had booked the room phoned back to hear whether his guest had arrived, the hotelier, acting on orders from the two cops, told him that the Spaniard had already checked into the room, but had just popped out to get some cigarettes. The man on the phone then announced that he was coming over to the hotel and would be there in about twenty minutes. At this point, the cops had asked the hotelier to disappear for a while, saying that they would look after reception personally, and if there were any problems with the other hotel customers they would call him.

  The hotelier had then withdrawn, with his wife, into their private apartment. Less than half an hour later, the cops had knocked on his door to say everything was fine and would he mind coming along to the Commissariat the following afternoon to sign a statement. They had then thanked him for his cooperation and left.

  At midnight, before he had locked the door and retired for the night—the hotelier preferred to give his clients the key to the door rather than pay a night porter’s wages—the cops had returned. They had brought with them a guy who must have been some kind of a foreigner: he had a moustache, his hair was slicked down with brilliantine, and he had handcuffs on his wrists. The police had asked the hotelier to keep out of the way till the following morning, saying the hotel was needed for a major police operation.

  He had obeyed without a word. He was particularly frightened of the captain from the Finanza and didn’t wish to do anything whatsoever to upset him. He had fallen badly behind with his accounts and didn’t want anyone poking their noses in. He hadn’t the faintest idea what had happened during that night but at a certain point—around three in the morning—he had heard someone yelling. Some of the people staying at the hotel had heard it too. The following morning he’d had to make up a story about a guest having a row with his girlfriend.

  The next day, when he arrived at the Commissariat to make his statement, something odd had happened. In the prepared account of events they read out to him, there was no mention of the first time they had asked him to ‘disappear’ for thirty minutes or so, between nine and ten o’clock the previous evening.

  ‘But you took care not to bring up this oversight, am I right?’

  The hotelier removed his specs and began to clean them with a handkerchief exactly the same shade of brown as his suit. ‘It was none of my business. They told me I’d be called upon to testify at the trial but that I’d only need to confirm what I’d already told the police.’ He sat back down in his armchair in front of the TV. Anna Identici had been replaced at the microphone by Nilla Pizzi, warbling the usual tear-jerker.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked my associate, when we got out of the hotel.

  Rossini fiddled with his bracelets. ‘I don’t know. That guy’s account wasn’t all that clear . . . Maybe the first trap drew a blank. But then the cops would hardly have left the Zodiaco. Above all, they wouldn’t have told the hotelier everything was just fine and that he should come along to the Commissariat the following day.’

  ‘No. Something must have happened that both the police and the Finanza are keen to cover up. The holes in the statement they got the hotelier to sign are clear enough evidence of that.’

  ‘Maybe Corradi knows something. It’s time we had a chat with him.’

  Vincenzo Mansutti, a corporal in Venice’s prison police service, was a man of strict habit: every evening, on leaving the Santa Maria Maggiore prison, he stopped off at a nearby osteria for a quick drink. He was forty, his career was going nowhere, and he was
obsessed with Oriental nightclub hostesses whose company, on the lousy salary he earned, he could ill afford to keep. Until, that is, he had run into Rossini at a nightclub.

  Mansutti had been slavering over a barely passable Filipino girl who was doing very little business that evening. He kept making eyes at her and every now and then flashed her a grin. The girl seemed irritated with this Italian who instead of stepping forward and buying himself some time in her company had just sat there and ogled.

  Old Rossini had been observing the scene and had noted the distinctive fragrance of cop that Mansutti gave off. The waiter confirmed Rossini’s suspicions, informing him that what he was looking at was in fact a prison cop. Rossini realized at once that he had been presented with a golden opportunity. He had another word with the waiter and then a couple of minutes later looked on as the Filipino hostess walked up to Mansutti, took him by the hand and led him over to a booth where a bottle of champagne was waiting for them.

  Rossini let an hour slip by before going over and introducing himself. ‘Hi. I’m Beniamino Rossini. This is all on me and, if you feel like prolonging the evening’s entertainment, this young lady will be happy to spend a couple of hours with you in one of the backrooms.’

  ‘How come you’re so friendly?’ Mansutti had asked, frowning suspiciously.

  ‘Because you’re a prison cop and I’m the kind of person who’s liable to end up one day as a guest of yours. I’d like to know I’ve got a friend . . .’

  Mansutti had been quick-witted enough to counter, ‘What, for a single fuck?’

  ‘If this joint and its personnel are to your liking, I can open an account for you. You can come and go as you like, have a good time and pay nothing. But the day I snap my fingers, I want first-rate service.’

  ‘You’ve got a deal,’ Mansutti had replied, with a sly little grin that didn’t escape Rossini’s notice.

  ‘One last thing: find out who I am. That way you won’t try to rip me off.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I have no intention of ripping anyone off.’

  ‘Then congratulations. You’ve just become a bent cop.’

  So when Mansutti saw us walk into the osteria, he knew right away it was payback time. In a single gulp he emptied the glass of verduzzo the barman had just poured him. Then he placed a couple of banknotes on the counter, left the bar, and ducked into a narrow street.

  He stopped almost immediately and waited for us, looking tense. Maybe he had hoped this moment would never come. Rossini looked him straight in the eye and gave him a friendly smile. ‘There’s a really cute chick who’s just arrived from Thailand. She works at a nightclub near Pordenone but I can arrange for you to meet her.’

  Mansutti took a deep breath. ‘Somehow I don’t think you’ve come here just to tell me that.’

  Rossini’s expression hardened. ‘You’re right. I’ve come to ask you a little favor.’ He extracted a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Mansutti. ‘We need to talk to Nazzareno Corradi, Block C, cell twenty-one.’

  Mansutti turned white. ‘I can’t do it. They’ll find it the first time they do a search.’

  Rossini shook his head. ‘No, they won’t. Because you’ll have it. You hand it to him just before we call and as soon as we’re done you take it back off him.’

  ‘There’s no way I can take it into his cell. He’s not on his own. Besides, he’s under special surveillance. Police headquarters have made the governor put an informant in with him.’

  Rossini and I exchanged glances. Mansutti was turning out to be a mine of information.

  ‘What’s his name? What’s the snitch’s name?’ Rossini demanded.

  ‘Angiò. Rossano Angiò.’

  ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘Dealing ecstasy.’

  ‘A hero of our times,’ I remarked. Then I turned to Mansutti. ‘You’re a corporal, right? I’m sure you don’t do guard duties on the block. Where can you approach Corradi without attracting attention?’

  ‘In the exercise yard, I guess. There are some toilets near the control post. I could leave the phone there while I’m doing my routine check before the prisoners come down, and then pick it up again at the end of the hour.’

  ‘When is Block C’s turn in the yard?’ I asked.

  ‘From two to three in the afternoon.’

  ‘We’ll call at ten past two on the dot. How are you going to put Corradi in the picture?’

  ‘That won’t be a problem. Tomorrow I’ll make sure I relieve the other corporal at the control post. More to the point, how many times will you be wanting to call?’

  ‘As many as it takes,’ replied Rossini. ‘Keep the phone in your pocket at all times, with the battery well charged. We’ll let you know the evening before we make a call.’

  Mansutti took a few steps then turned around. ‘What about the chick from Thailand? What’s the deal?’

  Rossini took a folded piece of paper from his inside coat pocket. ‘Call this number. They’ll tell you where and when. It’s all set up.’

  ‘You’ve got him on a nice tight leash,’ I said, as we watched Mansutti walking away.

  Rossini chuckled and shook his head. ‘The Filipino girl told me he spends the whole time nuzzling and sniffing at her. He’s a total head-case, but he’ll do as he’s told. He’s got too much to lose to jerk us around.’

  A little before midnight we arrived at the Black Baron in Eraclea to check out Victoria’s story.

  It was one of the area’s most fashionable nightspots, with subdued lighting, fifth-rate music and family men out to get their kicks. On the main floor, the girls danced topless while a bunch of half-drunk slobs slipped banknotes under the elastic of their panties.

  After a quick chat with the landlord, I followed Old Rossini over to one of the booths reserved for the more intimate kinds of display performed for a limited number of customers. We had just sat down when a blonde girl walked in. She had a hard, heavily made-up face and a somewhat ungainly body, but she had big tits, the essential prerequisite for anyone in that line of work. She said she was Romanian, her name was Vera, and she had been in Italy a year.

  She gave us a huge grin. ‘I can either dance or . . .’ and here she made an unambiguous gesture with her mouth. ‘No problem,’ she went on. ‘You just give me a little extra present.’

  ‘If they find out you’re offering your clients that type of service on the side, you’re going to get badly roughed up,’ Rossini warned. ‘It’s enough to get the whole joint closed down.’

  The girl sat down between us and poured herself a glass from a bottle of Moët & Chandon. The label was a fairly skillful fake and the bottle in fact contained the cheapest variety of fizzy wine. One of many standard nightclub scams.

  ‘Oh, they don’t mind if I do stuff with clients. The clients certainly don’t call me into a booth so they can watch me dance. I’m not beautiful. I have to do what I can.’

  ‘Whereas Victoria was really in demand, right?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. But she is beautiful, really a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Does she come and see you much?’

  ‘Sure, at least once a week.’

  ‘Including the night of the twenty-sixth of December?’

  Vera glared at us. ‘Hey, that was the evening they arrested her man. You’re not the police, are you?’

  I reassured her. ‘No, of course we’re not. Well?’

  ‘Yes, she was here with us. She spent some time in the bar and then went to the dressing-room for a chat with the girls who were resting.’

  ‘How did she seem? Relaxed?’

  ‘Sure. We talked about the shitty owners of lap-dance joints and had a good laugh. We were laughing the whole time.’

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Some time after four.’

  I pulled out my wallet and handed her a good
tip. Vera gave us a little goodbye wave and went off to chase other clients. Rossini called the waiter over. ‘Take this crap away and bring me a vodka, the good stuff, and iced.’

  ‘I’ll have a Calvados.’

  ‘What Vera says backs up Victoria’s story,’ Rossini remarked, checking the signal on his cell phone. ‘Huh! Down here in this hole, cell phones are useless, and she was here till the place closed.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘If we decide to take the job and help Corradi, how are you thinking of proceeding?’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to be the most straightforward of cases. This time we’re going to have to deal directly with cops and magistrates. They’re the only ones really in the picture. And they’re not going to give anything away if they can help it.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a way we can load the dice.’

  ‘If they let us . . .’

  I got back to La Cuccia just in time to see Virna. She was warming up the engine of her car. It was a bitterly cold night, everything covered with a white shroud of frost, and Virna’s nose was icy. When I told her I wouldn’t be coming to sleep at her place that night because I wanted to be alone, she stuck it right up against my neck in retaliation.

  I stretched out on the couch in the lounge and aimed the remote at the stereo. There was a silence, then the voice of Robben Ford pitched into ‘Prison of Love’. I reached out a hand and picked up a bottle of Calvados. I removed the cap and sniffed at the contents. It put me in a good mood straight away. I ought to have focused on the case but I just couldn’t. I let myself go, to the rhythm of the blues. It was going to be a good night.

  MARCO POLO AIRPORT, VENICE

  La Tía hugged her coat close as she hurried down the steps onto the runway. Never in her life had she felt such intense cold. Aisa followed just behind, lunging and tottering in the high-heeled boots she had persuaded La Tía to buy for her at the duty-free shop in Amsterdam. In the airport bus, La Tía took a sip of Blanco, before handing the bottle to Aisa, who barely moistened her lips with it. She loathed that low-grade rum with its taste of aniseed, but Doña Rosa was the kind of woman you didn’t like to disobey.